I Am My Father's Son
by gravity01
Summary: And sometimes... he gives me this look... like he's been hit with something painful.


**This story was inspired by my last oneshot called Daddy's Girl, in which Erik has a daughter. Since I _apparently _have this thing for sappy kid-stories, I thought I'd write another one under the premise that Erik and Christine had a son. Enjoy!**

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When I wake up, I feel something wet and cold one side of me. I think I am lying in a mud puddle. I try to lift my head to see, but it hurts too much. I have a feeling that, if I were to sit up, I wouldn't see much anyway… my left eye is swollen shut.

Everything hurts; I feel as if my head has pounded straight through a stone wall and there is a throbbing ache radiating from my knee. Every time I take a breath, a searing pain shoots through my side… I must have broken a rib.

I see a man enter my field of vision. I cannot look up, but I can tell by his shoes who he is.

My father.

He leans down and asks me something. What is it? I groan in response.

His hands run up and down my body, checking my injuries, continually asking, "does this hurt?" I don't think to answer, but occasionally I wince or hiss when his fingers press a particularly nasty cut or bruise. I cry out when his hands run over my broken rib. "That one _does _hurt," I whisper, mustering what--at best--could be described as a sarcastic smile.

He is moving me now. Oh, it hurts! But soon he has me situated and is walking home, trying as best he can to keep from jostling me.

I should feel embarrassed that he is carrying me. I am far to old for this. For crying out loud, I'm _nine_! And yet, I cannot bring myself to be ashamed. As grown-up as I am… there are times when it still feels good to be in my father's arms.

I look up at him; I cannot see his face, but I can tell by his eyes that he is angry.

Mama can read his expressions well, because she has known him so long. But I can read them better. After all, I tend to wear the same ones on my own face.

He doesn't often tell me that he loves me. It worries Mama sometimes… but she does not understand that we men do not need to hear such sappy words. All I need to know, I can tell by the way he looks at me.

There is the look he wears when are playing a duet for Mama… and the happiness that only grows when she joins in. He likes to see her treated well.

And there is the look he gives me when I master a difficult assignment or do well in my music lesson. I live for that look.

There are other looks, too. Like when I was playing with a rope I had made and nearly strangled Uncle Nadir by accident. Mama was absolutely livid and punished me heartily… but I am pretty sure Papa was very much amused by the whole thing.

And sometimes he smiles at me for no good reason at all.

But there is one expression that I have never been able to read. Sometimes when he stops to look at me, he looks like someone has just hit him with a club or something. I want to ask Mama about it, but I know she will only hug me and tell me how much they both love me… and what kind of an answer is that?

The thing is… she doesn't have an answer. There is so much that she will never know about Papa… because she is too good to understand it.

Like when he rages and screams over nothing. Or when he locks himself in a room for days and comes out like it's been no time at all. Or when he picks up an instrument and plays music that makes both Mama and me cover our ears in fear and pain.

She cries when he does these things… or wears the humongous smile that gives someone away as being supremely unhappy.

I wish she would not feel this way. He does not do these things to hurt her.

I understand this about him because… and Mother does not know this… but I have the same feelings in myself. I know what it is like to have a dark creature lurking about inside you, just looking for a reason to come out and take over. I feel the same compulsions to write terrible, soul-ripping music, in search of some temporary relief… even to the detriment of all else. And I feel the same obsessive need to possess the things that inspire me.

I can fight it… because Papa has made me strong. And I can beat back my obsessions, because Mama keeps me grounded. But… my father did not have such a good Mama and Papa to teach him these things. He has been on his own for so long that, no matter how happy we are, some things will never change.

I want Mama to see that. So does he. We both adore her… that is just another item to add to the list of things we have in common.

Most boys my age do not like girls, I believe. They find them ugly and stupid. But not me… because I see the way Papa and Mama treat each other and I know that Papa does not think of her this way. He says he would die without her… and that there is nothing wrong with that. When I watch them, I can't help but think that Papa must know something about girls that these boys do not.

And that is why I did not ignore the fuzzy feeling in my stomach that I felt when I saw the pretty girl in the park today.

Which is what left me in the condition that I now find myself.

She was standing by the pond, in a pretty yellow dress, throwing bread crumbs to the ducks. Papa has taught me to appreciate beautiful things… and she was very beautiful. I simply stared from behind a tree until I had bundled up enough courage to go talk to her.

I went right up to her and introduced myself. I would have kissed her hand, like a true gentleman, but she was giving me a very peculiar look and I chickened out. I scolded myself to be brave… then I took a deep breath and asked if she would like to come play with me.

She said yes and handed me some of her bread crumbs. I let out that big breath I had been holding.

I was ecstatic that she had said yes… but, something just didn't feel right. She smiled at me… but it was not a happy smile.

After a few minutes of feeding ducks, I started to relax. That is when she turned to me and said, "We are friends now, are we not?"

"Yes, of course," I answered.

"Then why are you wearing that mask? If you were really my friend, you would not be acting so silly."

"What?"

"Come on, then… take it off! If you won't take off your mask, then I won't be your friend anymore."

It seemed like a rather odd request, actually… but I could honestly think of no reason to refuse her.

So I took it off.

And then… oh, and then… her face contorted and she screamed. She backed away from me with her arms crossed over her face… just screaming and screaming and…

"Stop! Please… I don't… just stop screaming… I'm sorry… please stop… I'll do anything!"

But it was too late. Her brothers heard her cries and ran to see what was the problem. When they saw, they began to close in on me. I did not register the looks on their faces or the taunts they were shouting… I could only see the terrified look on the face of the girl who had been my friend only moments before.

After that, it all becomes a little hazy. I don't even know if I fought back or not. I am very strong, but there were four of them. I tell myself it doesn't matter if I fought them or not, because it would have been futile anyway. But, in my heart, I know that it _does _matter. A part of me is glad I cannot remember… because I am afraid I won't like the answer.

As I look up into my father's angry eyes, I wonder if that is the reason for his anger. Is he mad that I did not fight harder? That is why I am mad…

"I'm sorry, Father," I say.

Just before the world goes black again, I swear I hear him say, "_Don't be, son…_"

When I wake up again, I feel exhausted and sore, but overall much better. I am in my bed, all clean with bandages around the parts that hurt the most. I see my mother, fussing over me with cold cloths and nice words. I like listening to her voice. She tries to give me some of the pain medicine my father mixed up for me, but I refuse. It will make me tired and I am not ready to sleep again just yet.

"Mama, could I see Papa for a bit?"

She smiles at me. It is a very special smile because it is all mine. Father is usually very possessive of Mama, but he doesn't seem to mind that she has set aside this smile just for me. It is a mother's smile.

She leaves and sends in my father… and I let out a sigh of relief. I will be strong for my mother, because I do not want her to worry. But I do not have to pretend with Papa… he can see through it all, anyway.

Mothers are wonderful… but there are times when a boy just wants his father.

He sits beside me on my bed and holds my hand. I do not see this side of him very often, but it feels good just the same. He always seems to know just what I need and when.

But… he is giving me that look again. The one I can't understand.

"What is it, Father?"

"She took your mask, didn't she, son?"

"Yes, Father."

He looks away… like he is talking to the wall instead of me. "Erik's mother used to make him wear a mask because she hated him… she could not bear to see him."

I am mortified. "Is that why you and Mama make me wear one outside? Because you hate me?"

"NO! No… son… you wear a mask outside because Erik wishes to _protect _you."

"What do you mean?"

"Can you not _see_, boy?" he practically shouts. I flinch and his eyes soften a bit. "Have you not noticed that you look… different… from everybody else?"

"But it's not true! _You _look just like me!"

There's that look again… like someone's just hit him. Is it because I have pointed out his flawed logic? Somehow… I don't think that is it.

"_Erik is sorry… Erik is so sorry…" _he whispers again and again, putting his hand over his face.

"What is wrong, Father? Do you not want me to be just like you?"

He looks at me very seriously. I never like that look. It means we're about to talk about something embarrassing or unpleasant.

"Your father is not a good man. He tries… because he loves his family… but he is not the kind of person you should aspire to be."

He is wrong. My father is the greatest hero the world has ever known… even if nobody knows it but me.

But… I am not stupid… I know that now is not a time to argue.

Instead we sit in silence for a very long time. He is rubbing little circles on my hand and I am beginning to feel tired even without the medicine.

"Thank you for coming for me today, Papa," I say after awhile.

"Always, son," he answers, kissing the hand he's been holding, "always."

Then he stands and clears his throat gruffly. Picking the elixir off the nightstand, he shoves it in my hand. "Don't be stubborn, boy," he snaps, "Take your medicine."

When I do as he asks, he takes the bottle from me and leaves the room, just as quickly as if he had never come at all.

I shut my eyes, imagining what it will be like to be all grown up. _If I turn out like him, I shall be very lucky._

As I am barely asleep, I sense him slip back into the room and kiss my forehead.

_Yes… very lucky, indeed._


End file.
